


Don't Forget About Us

by Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Amnesia, Artist Grantaire, Based on a Tumblr Post, Enjolras Has Feelings, Enjolras/Grantaire-centric, Fluffy Ending, Grantaire & Éponine Thénardier Friendship, Hospitals, M/M, Married Couple, Pining Grantaire, Romantic Fluff, Sad Grantaire, Sweet, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 17:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16350830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome/pseuds/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome
Summary: Based on a Tumblr post by kleopatraphilopator. A "what-if" Modern AUThe Tumblr post read (and spoilers ahead)Grantaire with amnesia who wakes up in his hospital bed after an accident and recognizes and remembers Enjolras, just doesn’t remember the last couple years (i.e. he doesn’t remember dating him, let alone marrying him) and so he’s absolutely crushed when he sees a ring on Enjolras’ left hand.





	Don't Forget About Us

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to kleopatraphilopator over on Tumblr for the idea!
> 
> Comments are VERY welcome! They're the best part of writing fics.

All hospitals smell the same. Grantaire’s first thought was reflecting on that chemical, too-clean, harsh scent, as he blinks in the sharp fluorescent lights. This place smells just like where he’d recovered after a very bad fever as a child, and where he used to go to visit his ailing grandma.

His second thought is that he hated hospital food. If he was lying here, hooked up to god-knows-how-many-IVs, that probably meant he’d have to eat hospital food, and soon.

His third thought is spoken out-loud. “How the hell did I get here?”

At first, he doesn’t think anyone’s there to answer him. Until a snore does, and he searches the room with his eyes, looking for the noise.

Courf was sleeping in a chair nearby. Or, at least, he was pretty sure it was Courf. His friend didn’t look… right. There were little lines at the corner of his eyes, and near his mouth, among all his freckles.

What was going on?

“You look like shit,” Grantaire says, as Courfeyrac’s eyes slowly blink open.

Joy spreads over the man’s face, that big, ridiculous smile that won him friendship from everyone, and then, with warmth in his voice, he replied, “right, cause you’re ready for a beauty pageant.”

Grantaire laughs then and laughing hurts his ribs. The machine next to him beeps disapprovingly. He lifts an arm to stare at the IV. “What happened to me?”

“Car accident,” Courf says, and his voice has more pain than Grant has ever heard in it before.

He freezes. “The… the… ” he can’t even say the others, which is terrible He should be worried about all of them. Instead, he wordlessly makes the simple shape of Enjolras’s name, not daring to speak it.

"Wasn't that bad of an accident." Courfeyrac squeezes his arm. “He’s fine. He’ll be happy to see you.”

“Now, I know that the second sentence is a lie.” His tone is light because he’s remembered to breathe once more. “Was he even in my car? Musta been a bad day for him, if so.”

“How’d you reckon that?” Courfeyrac is giving him that puppy-dog look he's always had. Some things apparently haven't changed. Was he in a coma or something, for all this time?

“Never been much more than a pain to him. That’s all.”

“I see,” Courfeyrac says the phrase so precisely, with an inflection that makes Grantaire think of someone else.

“When’s the wedding?”

“What?” Courf nearly falls out of his chair.

“You. You sound like Ferre. When you two gonna just tie the knot?”

Courfeyrac laughs and kisses the top of Grantaire’s head before leaving. It’s a happy sound, which makes him feel much better than he thought he could, upon waking up in a hospital.

But his smile drops as Courfeyrac opens the door, slipping away. Because there, on his finger, is a golden ring.

How much time has he missed? 

* * *

 

Grantaire closes his eyes, and soon, falls asleep. He wakes to a nurse checking his vitals and exclaiming over how healthy he looks today. “Hey,” he starts. “How long was I out for?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Just here for your vitals,” she replies, jotting down numbers that mean nothing to him.

Numbers. Is this hospital visit costing anyone anything? He’s not really sure if university health insurance covers being in a coma and car accidents. Because it has to be a coma. That’s what he was missing. Years of his friends lives, Courfeyrac’s wedding. There was too much he didn’t know right now, and that scared him.

Enjolras's voice wakes him again, a few hours later.  He'd know it anywhere, that sweet, firm tone, the careful way he says "hmm" when he considers something.

Not that he's ever considered Grantaire as anything more than a nuisance. God, what was their last exchange? Some stupid argument over flyers on campus? A joke about Enjolras’s flowing golden hair? He’d said such stupid shit, and now, it must be years from those moments, and that was all that Enjolras had to remember him.

If he remembers him at all. 

Grantaire struggles to sit up. A machine beeps angrily at him. “Shut up,” he mutters. There’s no mirror nearby, so he has to resort to studying himself with his hands. They skim over his stubble, run through the shaggy hair someone must have trimmed for him.

He’s far too aware of the rough shape he’s in. Well, rougher than usual. He’s never been a beauty show contestant, but he’s certainly not going to win any awards now.

And then, he can’t think of anything else, because the man is entering his room. He only sees a flash of golden hair, before he makes a quick decision.

He closes his eyes. He’s not ready to see him. Not when he’s laying in this hospital bed, like the failure he is.

Courf didn’t tell him exactly how he ended up here, but he’s sure it’s his own fault. Sure he’s screwed up in some way or another. He always does.

Books click softly on the cold linoleum floor.

“Oh.” The word is barely whispered. But it’s him. He still wears the same cologne, something woodsy and surprisingly spicy for someone so angelic and gentle. Grantaire’s never smelled it on anyone else and sometimes wondered if it was a custom-made one. 

Enjolras’s hand rests for a moment on Grantaire’s arm, and it takes everything in him to not open his eyes, to not turn and look up at the man who is finally touching him. 

The heart-rate monitor beeps faster. Will it give him away?

“I’m glad you’ve come back to us,” Enjolras says. He squeezes a little, but gently. Maybe hoping Grantaire would wake up.

All it does, though, is press cool metal against Grantaire’s skin.

The metal of a ring, on the fourth finger.

Enjolras has gotten married.

He should have known. It’ snot like Grantaire’s ever said anything of his feelings. Not really. Not except for that one time, while Marius was finishing the last of many ill-advised Jello shots. Not except for that time, when Grantaire’s feelings had finally burst from the battered, tightly-latched with locks made of denial and Jack Daniels, box he kept them in.

One drunken confession, mixed with countless antagonistic comments, and flavored with heavy doses of sarcasm, is a cocktail too lethal for any to drink.

So, he stays quiet, now, in the hospital room. The heart rate monitor beeps the world’s most boring drum solo, and Enjolras’s breath punctuates the noise with its softness.

Why has he come? Why is he sitting here, for so long, if he knows Grantaire is asleep?

Can’t he get back to his damn husband?

A voice calls, “Mr. Enjolras?”

He stands and walks across the room. “Just Enjolras, please. It’s my first name, as my mother seemed to have-”

_A flair for the dramatic_. Grantaire mouths the words that he’s heard a thousand times. He can’t help but indulge in that verbal intimacy, the feeling of knowing something another was about to speak.

It’s the only intimacy he’s ever had with Enjolras.

“Ah, well, mine named me Gertrude, so I understand,” the nurse replies. “There’s some paperwork if you have a moment? Unless there’s someone else…”

“No. I can do it.”

Grantaire's eyes squeeze tighter together. Is this how far he’s fallen? To have to rely on a man who can barely tolerate him to be his next of kin? 

But only ‘Ponine, had known, in college (which was apparently a while ago) that Grantaire’s stepfather kicked him out of the trailer they called a home, the day he’d come back from Pride with a rainbow sticker on his cheek. Did she tell the others then?

A little bubble of fury arose in him, frustrated that his one friend could not keep his secret. That pain, the days of shelter life, the nights when all the insults came back to haunt him, was not one he wanted to be shared with any.

Least of all with Enjolras, whose own parents founded a Parents of LGBTQIA Students coalition for him, and supported all he did. They even had galas for progressive candidates running for office. Enjolras was always working one of those or another.  Not that Grantaire had ever been to one, though the invite had been extended to him, along with all the other members of the ABC Club. He already knew he didn’t fit in. He didn’t have to go rub his nose in some vegan-faux-caviar to know that.

Enjolras was always a world apart from him, and it seems that hasn’t changed now.

* * *

 

Grantaire drifts in and out of sleep for the next few days. Days? Maybe. Time has gotten fuzzy. He’s aware of some meals, and some people, sitting in chairs, trying to talk to him. The people all look and sound like people he used to know, but all of them are older, more tired, different.

It makes him feel old and tired too. 

Today, though, the visiting person stands at the foot of his bed, holding some documents. It’s some doctor or specialist or something like that. The nurse is talking to him quite insistently. “He wasn’t like this the first day. I swear it.”

No. On the first day, he still had hope. Which was stupid. Of course, Enjolras would have moved on, would have gotten married. Who was Grantaire to him? Nothing. He was nothing, which was all he deserved.

The specialist reviews the papers and says. “It’s like he’s given up. It’s the strangest thing.”

The nurse leans over Grantaire. “Don’t you want to get better? To see your family?”

He gives a wheezing bark of a laugh. What family?

“What’s his last memory?” the specialist asks the nurse. “It says there was some memory loss.”

She sighs. “We don’t know. He won’t talk to any of us.”

“But maybe he’ll talk to me.”

It’s Enjolras’s voice once more. The man enters the room, and this time, his blue eyes lock onto Grantaire’s before he can hide in sleep again.

Damn.

“You’re awake.” Enjolras smiles. There are a few signs of age in his face, or maybe just tiredness. His hair is shorter than it used to be. No longer held back by a ponytail, the gold curls halo around his sharp-featured face.

Gold like the ring on his hand.

“So I am,” Grantaire mutters as Enjolras sits next to him. He offers no other words, and the man does not speak either. They sit there in a silence that feels like an eternity.

“What do you remember?” Enjolras finally forges ahead, diving into the topic that Grantaire really doesn’t want to discuss.

“Nothing much. Class, cutting class, drinking, the time the Aliens invaded our planet and blew up Detroit.”

His flippant comment earns him an eye roll. So he sits there, stubbornly silent, ignoring the fact that Enjolras is close enough to touch. Finally, he blurts out, “Do you remember Marius's party?”

“Which one?”

“The uh...” the one that mattered. The stupid one. The one that made him feel so foolish to even recall.  The one that haunts him. “I guess if you can't remember, it doesn’t matter.

“No. Grantaire. Tell me, please.”

“It’s fine” he mutters. Though it’s not fine. Not at all.

Silence spreads once more. Finally, Enjolras mutters, “We'll have an even grander party when you recover.”

We. he doesn't dare to think who’s the other half of that. So he pretends it means something else. “Yes. Round up all the old crew. That’s what we are now, old, right?”

Enjolras fidgets with a golden chain around his neck. “Yeah. Old.”

There’s not even the ghost of a smile on his handsome face.

* * *

 

Grantaire, almost against his own will, starts to get frustrated with pretending he’s not healing. The bruises and scrapes are all healed, and his muscles ache with the need to move. When he first woke up, he’d thought he’d slept for a long time. But as he takes his first shaky steps with a nurse, and finds his body responds just fine, he realizes that perhaps, it hasn’t been so long.

Perhaps he is missing a great deal of memories. Not that he wants any of them back. With the way his life has gone, the fewer memories remaining, the better. That one was one the best parts of drinking; the oblivion he could find at the bottom of a bottle.

Combeferre had tried to reason with him once, tried to explain that liquor could never bring happiness. But the med student had never been able to understand that it wasn’t happiness he was looking for.

He knew somethings, happiness, love, family, those things would be out of his reach forever.

Soon enough, he’s been given the green light to go home, though no one seems to want to tell him where home is. Some aid promises he’ll be picked up, and when he asks what his address is, he’s told he’s saying on 1834 Hugo Road, which makes no sense because he can’t ever remember living there.

Then again, there’s a lot he can’t remember. His only dreams are of that damn party, of his mouth saying words he could never take back.

“Do you want your things?” the nurse offers

He recoils. “No. I’ll be all right.”

He’s missing stuff, that much is true. But he’s not sure he wants to see his mother’s engagement ring when the only man he’d ever want to propose to is already married.

The nurse settles for leaving his things in one of those reusable tote bags in the corner of his room. He’s due to be discharged at noon tomorrow.

 

That night, he dreams of the last clear memory he has, the same one that is haunting him every time he thinks of Enjolras. Even if it has been years for everyone else, it’s too soon for him. THere had been many shots of jello and cheap booze, too much loud music, too many chasers of beer. And then, Eponine had to show up with a bunch of theater props from the show she’d just staged.

“Marry me, Apollo,” He’d cried, twisting a feather boa around Enjolras’s slender hips.

The man had blushed so deeply. “Whatever do you…”

“Make an honest man of me, I mean.” Grantaire blustered, still shimmying. “Or, I suppose, you could just kiss me. I figured you were the classical type who would appreciate a proposal.

It had all made a great deal more sense in his mind before he’d started to speak. 

And it had all gone horribly wrong. Enjolras had turned stark white, all color draining from his already pale skin, and fled the party.

Nothing Grantaire drank, that night, or ever again, could take away the look of sheer horror in the eyes of the man he loved. And still loved, damn it all. Though he knew time had passed for all of them, that apparently, at least both Courf and Enjolras had gotten married...

Oh hell. What if those two...

No. Surely not. The sun would freeze over first.

Two seperate weddings then. He wonders if he was invited to either. If he cried, or sat there stoically. If he even bothered to show up, to watch the man he loved exchange vows with someone else?

He probably did. He'd always been a glutton for punishment of his heart.

* * *

 

In the morning, it’s Enjolras who wakes him. The real Enjolras. Not the dream one, but the man with the tired eyes and the short hair. Today he has a crisp white shirt on, and again, there’s the glint of gold against his collarbone.

Grantaire swallows hard, knowing he shouldn’t be looking there. That he shouldn’t be having thoughts of kissing that soft place at the base of Enjolras’s neck when the man is married.

"So, uh, you're married?" he finally blurts out, and to try and fix that he's said it, adds his usual obnoxious nickname, to the end. "Well, Apollo?"

"Happily, in fact." He replies and sets down a cardboard beverage container.  “Brought you coffee.” 

Grantaire scowl at the idea of drinking the bitter beverage. He hates plain coffee, and always has. Enjolras wafts the cup under his nose, the gesture so playful from such a serious man that Grantaire barks out a short chuckle.

It makes Enjolras light up like the sun.

God, he wants to kiss him.

And he can’t. Can’t even dream about it. Not now. Not ever.

But when he smells the coffee, he has to tilt his head. It’s not ordinary coffee. Far from it. It’s the heavy scent of a latte, with equal amounts of maple and cardamom. Only one coffee shop makes the drink in the whole city. One coffee shop that he used to sneak out to, when he needed inspiration for his art.  And it’s one he’s never brought anyone to.

Maybe Victor Cafe has branched out, or other people have started to copy Grantaire’s secret, favorite latte recipe. Hell, maybe he himself got drunk and shared the recipe with all his friends.

Though that seems doubtful. He’d gone there for years, his quiet place of refuge away from all the college drama. “How’d you know what to order?”

“Lucky guess.” Enjolras comments. He picked up the bag of Grantaire’s things. “Time to go.”

“What? You’re taking me?” How much of a charity case was he, if he couldn’t be trusted to get himself home?

“You’re staying with me. You’re supposed to be supervised for the next week. Doctors think your memories might come back then.”

It seemed to Grantaire the doctors told Enjolras an awful lot, but he supposed that was what having wealth and sophistication could do for a person.

* * *

 

The drive contains that same silence that seems to be the one thing they can share. Enjolras selects smooth jazz from his car stereo and swats Grantaire’s hand away when he tries to change it.

It’s the sort of swat one does without even looking at the other person, as if he knew Grantaire would lean in, ready to hit the change button. A shiver goes down Grantaire’s spine, as he’s left trying to figure out what he’s feeling.

He’s so focused on his own jumbled emotions, he doesn’t pay attention to the address or the houses flying by, until Enjolras is parking the car in front of a very prestigious-looking brownstone, with a rainbow flag flying from it’s door.

It’s a small, clear sign that Enjolras is still the man he was in college. Still out, still proud, still… “You still doing all that advocacy stuff?”

Enjolras looks at him sideways, before smiling. “Sure thing. You even help sometimes.”

He snorted. “Can’t see me getting dressed up and going on the campaign trail for nobody.”

“No, but we all have our own talents.” Enjolras exits the car, and then, opens Grantaire’s door.   
It’s a curious phrase from a man who had never believed Grantaire capable of doing anything well, or so he’d thought.

Enjolras clicks open the front door, leading into a long, hardwood hallway. There’s a few framed postcards of Paris, Rome, and Inverness on the walls. Odd, Grantaire thinks, how those were his top dream cities, the ones he’d visit if he ever won the lottery. He tries to tell himself they’re common cities, the type every wealthy tourist (which of course Enjolras would be) might go to, but he can’t say the same for the small Scottish town, famous only for having Loch Ness nearby. Grantaire had always been a fan of cryptids, and used to think he’d spot Nessie, if he just sat there long enough, painting the dark waters.

“Let me get Lucien," Enjolras says. "he'll be so happy to see you."

Of course. The man who gave him that ring. That's good. he's fine with being friends, he tells himself, it won't be that bad.

"Thanks for watchin' me while I heal," he mutters. But Enjolras has already disappeared down the hall. 

His voice echoes back to Grantaire’s ears, and he wishes he could stop hearing things the way he can stop seeing them if he just closes his eyes. "Lucien? C'mon sweetie, Grantaire's here." 

Ugh. Pet names.

He hopes they won't do copious pda in front of him. Not sure he could handle seeing that without crying... or barfing.

He’s so busy trying not to listen, that he barely notices the painting on the other wall. It’s of the still dark waters of Loch Ness, the castle ruins in the foreground, and the stars above. The sort of painting that fills the viewer with the oddly certain sense they’d been there.

It’s just a painting, he tells himself. Just a weird feeling. Just a painting.

And then, he hears the oddest noise.

Barking.

"Wha..." He whispers, more to himself than anyone else. 

A wild mutt of a dog comes bounding down the hall. Its paws click against the hardwood floor, and its golden coat gleams in the afternoon sunlight that pours down from the windows.

The dog barrels into Grantaire, barking with delight.

He blinks. 

"Good boy," he says because he doesn't know what else to say. Enjolras appears a second later, and before he can say anything, Grantaire asks,  'So, your uh husband doesn't mind dogs?"

"no," enjolras says, and his voice sounds sad. Too sad for such a simple question.

"Did he... my god, Apollo. Did he die? Was he in the accident with me?” Was that what everyone hadn’t told him? He knew they’d been keeping secrets. “I'm so sorry. What a fuckin fool I've been. You must be grieving him, must be..."

His words die on his tongue, because Enjolras does not look like a man who was grieving. Instead, he looks halfway between bemused and baffled. He turns away for a second, back to stare at that incredible painting.

The dog’s wagging tail thumps against his leg. He doesn’t move to pet the dog, though, because he’s staring at the name of the painter who’d signed the artwork.

It’s his rebus. A masterful, large R, and a date, about four years later than the one he remembers.

"You are a fool," Enjolras reaches out to touch his cheek, pulling him towards him. He smiles. It makes his face radiant, as it always has. "But you are, now and always, my fool."

"Hmm?" 

The dog barks. Lucien. Lucien is the dog. Grantaire bends to pet him, scratching behind one ear in a way that just feels like the right thing to do. Lucien presses closer. “There’s my boy. There’s my Lucy-loo.” The words tumble from him as if he’s said them a thousand times.

And he’s not one for pet names.

What is going on?

Enjolras leans over, and tugs open the bag of the possessions that Grantaire has refused to go through, ignoring it like he’s ignored his feelings for Enjolras, all these years. Now, Enjolras is digging through the pile of clothes, and Grantaire can do nothing but stare. Finally, Enjolras turns to him, smiling. He’s holding a tiny Ziploc bag. Inside the bag is.. a golden marriage band. Enjolras takes it out and offers it to him.

Grantaire's breath catches. It is the perfect match to Enjolras's

"Since you don't seem to remember, I'll ask again. Grantaire, will you marry me?"

* * *

 

The memories come back over the next few days, leaving him constantly astounded, and utterly delighted at most, and only very embarrassed at a few.  He learns that his actions at Marius's party made Enjolras realize that he'd felt the same for Grantaire, though he'd never put it into words. He'd learned that he challenged the man to take his activism out to those less empowered,  to the marginalized members of the community, not those who attended galas. That he and Enjolras were the founders of program taking art supplies to kids in homeless shelters. He even finds out that Enjolras wears his mother's engagement ring on that gold chain around his neck, because it was too small for his fingers when Grantaire proposed.

The gold band stays on his finger, and the only sight that makes him happier than that is the smile on Enjolras’s face when he sees his husband every morning.

Him.

His husband.

When he sees him, Grantaire knows this dream was worth living for.


End file.
